An African Affair by Nina Darnton

so smooth she had a momentary urge to reach out and touch it; his posture was proud but not rigid, and his manner was friendly, even gracious. An upper-class English accent reflected his Sandhurst education. He was, moreover, undeniably attractive.
    “Have you been out of the central city?” he asked. “Have you been to our forests, our beaches, our villages? Have you seen the real Nigeria?”
    “Not yet,” she replied. “But I hope to do a lot of traveling around the country soon.”
    “Well, look around,” he said, waving his long arms at his office walls. “I have had photographs of some of our finest attractions hung right here to remind me what I am working for on those days when I wonder whether it’s worth the struggle.”
    Lindsay obediently turned to examine half a dozen poster-sized pictures of banana plantations, wide-gapped rivers, offshore oil wells, and even some modern-looking factories. Her eyes stopped at a photograph of an isolated beach, palm trees nearly up to the shoreline.
    “That’s Bar Beach,” he said softly. “One of our most beautiful.”
    She stared at the wild surf, lulled by the resonance of his voice.
    The site, she reflected, could be any one of a multitude of beautiful beaches around the world, but the longer she looked at it, the more she had the feeling she had seen it before. Then she suddenly remembered that Bar Beach was the place where the young Olumide, who had seized power in a coup some ten years ago, had ordered his predecessor executed by firing squad, to musical accompaniment no less. Journalists had joked that despite the brutal coup and sadistic execution, he was nonetheless a man of culture. After all, they pointed out, he chose Mozart.
    She turned back and found him staring straight at her, his eyes now suddenly appraising, reminding her of her initial wariness.
    If you met him at a party, she thought, you’d guess he was the director of a prestigious media company. He didn’t wear Ray-Bans, long the trademark of African dictators, or, on this occasion, his military uniform. Since he was never seen publicly without it, Lindsay realized, his decision to appear for the interview in a business suit was obviously calculated. For Nigerians, he wrapped himself in the accoutrements of power. For the Western press, he cultivated a corporate image.
    “Did the pictures displease you?” he asked, something menacing in his smooth demeanor.
    “Oh, no,” she answered. “I just realized how busy you must be and that I should conduct our interview before you are called away.”
    “No one will call me away until I want to go,” he said.
    She detected an implied threat, a flash of danger. Despite his charm, she could not forget the stories about him she knew to be true—about his deceitfulness, his violence, his cruelty. Critics were routinely arrested, several had vanished. She had personally witnessed what had happened to one of them. Others had “accidents” that removed them from the political scene. She remembered the private words of Kofi Ransom, the dissident reporter arrested last year who had not been seen since: “If you are walking in the forest and you see Olumide and a python, kill Olumide first.”
    She reached into her bag and removed her tape recorder.
    “Would you mind if I record our interview?”
    “No, not at all,” he replied graciously. “We are doing the same of course.”
    She pressed the record button and double-checked that the machine was running.
    After a few obligatory softball questions about his goals and accomplishments, Lindsay worked the conversation around to his politics and the likelihood of his sponsoring a return to civilian rule.
    “Do you believe democracy is a workable option for Nigeria?”
    “Yes, of course,” he said, smiling benignly. “You know, Lindsay, I was educated in the West. I have a deep faith in democracy. But I want to be sure the country is ready for it.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I cannot